


Snow Angel

by Balder12



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Play, M/M, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12/pseuds/Balder12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's running a fever on a hot summer night.  Cas cools him down with his icy wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt by lies_unfurl on the summer-themed, dean-focused H/C comment meme at hoodietime

Dean wished that he’d hustled pool the night before last, like he was supposed to, instead of spending their last fifty bucks on cheap whiskey and then passing out in the back seat of the Impala. Now, instead of staying in a motel room, he and Sam had broken into one of the many foreclosed houses scattered around Sarasota. There was no electricity, of course, which meant no air conditioning and no overhead fans. The water had been shut off, too, so they couldn’t even take a cold shower. The little ranch-style house sweltered in the August heat like a sauna. The still air was a physical presence--a wet, hot blanket that smothered Dean under its weight.  
  
What was worse was that Dean’s little bender had broken down the last of his body’s resistance to the illness that he’d been fighting off. His hangover had been accompanied by a fever of 102. It was down to 101, now, but Sam had still refused to let Dean go with him on the salt and burn at the old Ringling Brothers property. He’d insisted that it was a “milk run,” and that he didn’t need Dean to keel over in the middle of setting fire to some creepy painting. Stupid, overprotective Sam. Dean hoped that there were clown ghosts.  
  
Meanwhile, Dean was stuck in the house alone, lying on top of his sleeping bag, staring at the dark ceiling and wishing to God that a natural spring would suddenly manifest in the middle of the living room so that he could throw himself into it. He’d stripped down to his boxers, but it barely helped. Sweat had beaded up all over his body in a sticky sheen, and his lips were cracked and bleeding from the fever.  
  
Sam had left a styrofoam cooler full of sports drinks, and talked about “hydration.” Dean, willfully ignoring him as usual, barely drank any of it. He’d used up the cool water from the melted ice hours ago by pouring it over himself, and now all the bottles were room temperature. Lukewarm Gatorade did nothing to ease Dean’s thirst.  
  
He was too miserable to sleep, and there was no TV or radio to distract him. He tried to read one of Sam’s science magazines with the help of Sam’s dorky clip light, but he was too feverish to concentrate. All he knew was that the article had something to do with water on Mars, and oceans of ice on Europa. Dean’s mind conjured up vast glaciers under a freezing starlit sky. It sounded like heaven.  
  
He didn’t even look up when he heard Castiel’s wings. “No,” he said, and rolled on his side.  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” Castiel replied, puzzled.  
  
“It’s 3am. You’re here because you want something, and the answer is no. I’m not fighting any monsters, or saving any universes.”  
  
“That’s not why I’m here,” Castiel said.  
  
“Then you’re here for sex, and the answer is still no. I feel like crap.” Even through the molasses that coated his consciousness, Dean knew that he kind of sounded like a dick. Being sick always made him cranky. He hated it when people had to take care of him.  
  
“You do understand that those aren’t the only reasons I come to see you?” Castiel asked, sounding weary and a little hurt. He sat down next to Dean and laid his hand on Dean’s forehead.  
  
“You have a fever.” He took off his trench coat and jacket, and started unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
“What did I just say about sex?” Dean muttered.  
  
“Some of us possess a virtue called ‘restraint.’ I’m undressing so that I can cool you off.” That didn’t make sense to Dean, but not much did, at the moment.  
  
It took Castiel far longer to remove his shirt than it would have taken an ordinary man. Cas was awkward with human clothes, and his fingers weren’t his own. Dean usually helped, but the thought of sitting up and unfastening buttons right now was as daunting as a hike up Mount Everest. By the time that Castiel tugged the sleeves off his shoulders and cast the shirt aside, Dean had lapsed back into feverish apathy. He was barely aware that Cas was there.  
  
Castiel pressed his hands against Dean’s hot, damp cheeks. Dean expected them to stick, but they were cold, and dry, in a way that human skin never was. Dean leaned into them. Cool thumbs stroked his eyelids. Castiel’s lips brushed against Dean’s, and their chill soothed the raw, throbbing skin. Some part of Dean always expected Castiel to be as cold as a statue when they touched, but this was the first time that he’d been right.  
  
“The hell?” Dean asked.  
  
“I can regulate my body temperature,” Castiel said, like that was perfectly normal. “Does it help?”  
  
Dean nodded. Castiel smiled slightly, his eyes thoughtful. A pair of wings unfurled from his back as naturally as if they’d always been there. The feathers near the base were exquisitely carved ice, like Castiel was the swan at a wedding reception. As the feathers extended toward the edges, they grew delicate and opaque, forming a downy rind of frost. The wings glowed palely, ripples of light passing through them. The illumination reminded Dean of a swimming pool at night.  
  
He stretched his hand tentatively toward a wing, and stroked the frosty down along the edge. It was as soft as newly fallen snow, but it didn’t dissolve or diminish under his touch. Nevertheless, it sent a trickle of ice water down his arm, that traced a path of sweet relief.  
  
“These aren’t your wings,” Dean said, trying not to sound as awed as he felt.  
  
“You still have your eyes, so, no.” Castiel said. “They aren’t  _my_  wings.  They’re just wings.” Dean was about to ask more, but Cas laid a cool finger against his lips, and Dean let it be.  
  
The wings flapped twice, creating a breeze, and then bent fluidly, as ice never could, until they drooped over Dean. They brushed across his chest and sides, leaving gleaming, wet trails. Ice water rolled slowly down his body, tickling, and then dripped off. The oppressive heat lifted away. He felt lighter than air, giddy and disoriented by the vivid unreality of fever.  
  
Castiel kissed him over and over again, his cold mouth soothing Dean’s lips, and then moving on to draw the heat from his flushed cheeks, his temple, his forehead. Icy fingers massaged Dean’s hands and petted his sweaty hair.  
  
The constant trickle of cold water across Dean’s skin made his thirst burn. Impulsively, he latched his mouth onto one of the wings and sucked. Slushy ice water flowed into his mouth and soothed his aching throat. He kept sucking, his whole body lax with relief. Cas made a soft sound, and his lips traveled down to Dean’s neck, cool against his pulse and the hollow of his throat.  
  
When Dean drank his fill, Castiel held him around the waist and rolled him over gently. The wings brushed across his sticky back in freezing paths. Cas’s lips pressed against the burning nape of Dean’s neck. Dean didn’t know if his shiver was cold or pleasure. The wings fell more completely across him, and the lips traveled slowly down his spine, knob by knob. Dean’s suffering was transformed into strange, sharp pleasure.  
  
He couldn’t say when he fell asleep. He only knew that he woke to the feeling of Castiel adjusting his body as easily as if he were a rag doll. Cas was sitting against the wall, and he’d maneuvered Dean to sit against him, back to chest. Cas’s skin wasn’t icy anymore. It felt more like old stone in shade, cool and comfortable. Dean pressed as much of himself against Cas as he could, his neck tipped back across Cas’s shoulder, his hot cheek buried in the side of Cas’s neck.  
  
The wings had folded in front of them, forming a cocoon of ice. Cold radiated off them like an open refrigerator, shielding Dean from the summer night. He gazed into them, fascinated by the rippling light they contained. He barely noticed when his reverie transitioned into a dream of stars, and glaciers, and wings.

 


End file.
